Five Minutes

Five Minutes

Harry longed to see the mirror again. Just once more. Just long enough to look at his mother's face, and his father's, and fix them properly in his memory, which was a thing he'd never had the chance to do.

But Dumbledore's words had stuck.

A great many things had happened to Harry in his life that he'd had no say in, and until very recently he hadn't thought much about any of them. That was simply how things were. He'd never expected anything better, so he'd never missed it. Then Hagrid had knocked the door down, and Harry had been swept off into this wonderful, mad world of witches and wizards, where strangers in the Leaky Cauldron had queued up to shake his hand, and where nobody, not one single person, not even that dreadful Malfoy girl, had ever hit him, or thrown him about, or locked him in a cupboard. There was something in that kind of happiness that you could get hooked on. That was the trick of the mirror, Harry thought, and the danger of it. It fed on exactly that hunger, the wanting of something better that everyone else seemed to have been born with and that had only lately woken up in him, and now burned so brightly that it frightened him a little.

So he did as Dumbledore asked and stayed away. He didn't want to disappoint Dumbledore, anyway.

The trouble was that now he was having nightmares. The same one, over and over. A flash of green light so bright it hurt, and a woman screaming.

Term had started again and everyone was back. Harry was sitting alone at the Gryffindor table eating what he hoped were Cheerios. You could never be entirely sure, with wizards. His mind drifted while he ate. He found himself wondering what it would be like for somebody to want him the way the people in the mirror had seemed to. To be looked at like that by someone who was real.

'All on your own, Potter?'

Dracina Malfoy had stopped beside him, with no Crabbe or Goyle in sight. 'Have your stupid friends finally ditched you? I suppose it was only a matter of time.'

'Go away, Malfoy,' said Harry.

'Make me, Pottyhead.'

Harry sighed and went back to his Cheerios. He'd found that this worked better than anything else he'd tried. Malfoy stood there. She went on standing there. Then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, she sat down on the bench beside him and arranged her robes, and reached across him for the toast rack.

'He asked you to leave him alone, Malfoy.'

Ron had arrived, with Hermione at his shoulder, and the pair of them sat down on Harry's other side. Hermione had been back for days, and had already told Harry a great deal about her Christmas, her parents, her grandmother's house, and the dentistry conference in Harrogate, most of it twice.

Malfoy's nose went up.

'Fine,' she said, standing. 'Enjoy your dirty, poor little Weasel, Potter.'

And she stamped back to the Slytherin table, where she sat down between Crabbe and Goyle and began at once to instruct them, loudly, on the correct way to hold a knife, which went over their heads like the owls bringing the post.

Harry was glad his friends had come to find him, and he lost himself in talking to them, even as Malfoy went on announcing to the whole Slytherin table how marvellous her friends were and how terribly important all their fathers were. Why on earth did she do that? he thought. It was so obnoxious. He turned his back on it and listened to Ron instead.

They had nearly given up on ever finding Flamel in a library book, though Harry was still certain he'd read the name somewhere. Once term began they were back to skimming through books for ten minutes at a time during breaks. Harry had even less time than the other two, because Quidditch practice had started again.

Harry loved Quidditch. But he was beginning to dislike Quidditch practice very much. Wood was working the team harder than ever, and even the endless rain that had replaced the snow couldn't dampen him. The Weasleys complained that he'd turned into a Quidditch fanatic, but Harry understood why, even if he hated how back-breaking the sessions had become. If they beat Hufflepuff in their next match, they would overtake Slytherin in the House Championship for the first time in seven years.

Quite apart from wanting to win, Harry found that he had fewer nightmares on the nights he came in worn out from training. So he never complained. He got on with it. And for some reason this seemed to make Wood extraordinarily happy. He took to clapping Harry on the back and praising him exactly as hard as he shouted at everybody else, though he never spared Harry a proper telling-off when Harry earned one. It was the praise, more than anything, that drove Harry on. He found he was thinking about the mirror less and less.

One afternoon, with the rain coming down in sheets, Wood had some very bad news for them. He'd just finished giving the twins a roasting for dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off their brooms in a way that would have stripped the paint off Hagrid's hut.

'Will you two stop messing about, you complete and utter plonkers!' he bellowed. 'We'll lose this match if you keep that up, you pair of idiots! Snape's refereeing this time, and he'll be looking for any excuse he can find to knock points off Gryffindor, so you'd better pack it in before I get the Bludgers out and make you run from them!'

George Weasley really did fall off his broom at that.

'Snape's refereeing?' he spluttered, through a mouthful of mud. 'When's he ever refereed a Quidditch match? That greasy pillock will fix the whole thing so we can't overtake Slytherin!'

The rest of the team landed round George to complain too.

'It's not my fault,' said Wood, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'We've got to play a clean game. Absolutely clean. So Snape hasn't got an excuse to pick on us.'

Which was all very well, Harry thought, but he had a reason of his own for not wanting Snape anywhere near him while he was fifty feet up on a broomstick.

The rest of the team hung back in the changing rooms to talk, as they usually did after practice, but Harry went straight up to the Gryffindor common room, where he found Ron and Hermione playing chess. Chess was the only thing Hermione ever lost at, which Harry and Ron agreed was very good for her.

'Don't talk to me for a minute,' said Ron, as Harry sat down beside him. 'I need to concen...' He caught sight of Harry's face and let his knight go. 'What's the matter, mate? You look terrible.'

Keeping his voice down so nobody else could hear, Harry told them about Snape's sudden and sinister interest in refereeing Quidditch.

'Don't play,' said Hermione at once. She'd moved a little closer to Harry as she said it, and there was something oddly fierce in her face.

'Say you're ill,' said Ron.

'Pretend to break your leg,' said Hermione.

'Really break your leg,' said Ron.

'Bloody hell, Ron,' said Harry. 'I'm not breaking my own leg.'

'Or say you've got a cold,' Ron pressed on, warming to it. 'A sneezing slug cold. Or, oh, a crackle-cough fit! I had one of those once. It was horrible. You cough and these little sparks come out...'

'I can't, anyway,' said Harry. 'There isn't a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can't play at all.'

And he didn't want to let the team down. He wanted to win.

At that moment Neville toppled through the portrait hole into the common room. How he'd got through it at all was anybody's guess, because his legs were stuck fast together, and everyone recognised the Leg-Locker Curse at once. He must have bunny-hopped the whole way up to Gryffindor Tower.

Everybody fell about laughing, except Hermione, who jumped up and did the counter-curse. Neville's legs sprang apart and he got up, shaking all over.

'What happened?' said Hermione, steering him to a chair beside Harry and Ron.

'Malfoy,' said Neville shakily. 'I met her outside the library. She said she'd been looking for someone in particular to practise that on. But that I'd do.'

What a nasty bully she was, Harry thought. And he had a cold, uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly who the someone in particular had been.

'Go to Professor McGonagall!' Hermione urged. 'Report her!'

Neville shook his head.

'I don't want any more trouble,' he mumbled.

'You've got to stand up to her, Neville!' said Ron. 'She's a spoilt brat used to getting her own way, but that's no reason to lie down in front of her and make it easy.'

'There's no need to tell me I'm not brave enough for Gryffindor,' Neville choked. 'Malfoy's already done that.'

Harry looked at him, and saw himself, at nine years old, after Dudley and his gang had finished with him. He knew exactly how alone Neville felt at this moment, and he didn't want anyone to feel like that. He felt in the pocket of his robes and found a Chocolate Frog, the last one left from the box Hermione had given him at Christmas, and held it out. Neville looked as if he might cry.

'You're worth twelve of Malfoy,' said Harry. 'The Sorting Hat knows what it's doing. It put you in Gryffindor, didn't it? And where did it put Malfoy? Slimy old Slytherin.'

Neville's mouth twitched into a weak smile as he unwrapped the Frog.

'Thanks, Harry... I think I'll go to bed... d'you want the card? You collect them, don't you?'

Harry watched him go up the stairs, worrying about him, and then glanced down at the card in his hand.

'Dumbledore again,' he said. 'He was the first one I ever...'

He stopped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he looked up at Ron and Hermione.

'Ha! Result!' he shouted, so loudly that two second-years looked round. 'I've found Flamel! I told you I'd seen the name somewhere. It was on the train! Listen to this: "Professor Dumbledore is best known for overcoming the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for discovering the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and for his alchemical work with his partner, Nicolas Flamel"!'

Hermione leapt to her feet. She hadn't looked so excited since the day they'd got the marks back for their first ever piece of homework.

'Stay there!' she said, and she sprinted up the stairs to the girls' dormitories.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, baffled, but she was back before they could say anything, with an enormous old book clutched to her chest.

'I never thought to look in here!' she whispered. 'I got it out of the library weeks ago, for a bit of light reading.'

'Light?' said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet until she'd found what she wanted, and began flicking frantically through the pages, muttering under her breath.

At last she stopped.

'I knew it! I knew it!'

'Great,' said Ron. 'Are we allowed to speak yet?'

Hermione waved a hand at him without looking up, and for a second she looked remarkably like Malfoy.

'Nicolas Flamel,' she whispered, with great drama, 'is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone!'

Harry and Ron stared at her and waited for elaboration.

'You what?' said Ron.

Hermione gave him a withering look.

'Oh, honestly. Don't either of you ever read? Look. Read that. There.'

She shoved the book across to them, and Harry and Ron read.

The ancient art of alchemy has one great object: the making of the Philosopher's Stone, a legendary substance of extraordinary power. The Stone will turn any metal into pure gold, and it yields the Elixir of Life, which renders the drinker immortal. Many claims to the Stone have been made down the centuries, but the only one known to exist today belongs to Mr Nicolas Flamel, the celebrated alchemist and lover of opera. Mr Flamel, who marked his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, lives quietly in Devon with his wife Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight).

'See?' said Hermione, when they'd finished. 'The dog must be guarding Flamel's Philosopher's Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to look after it for him, because they're friends and he knew somebody was after it. That's why he wanted it moved out of Gringotts!'

'A stone that makes gold and stops you dying,' said Harry. 'No wonder Snape wants it. Anyone would.'

'And no wonder we couldn't find Flamel in A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry,' said Ron. 'He's not exactly recent, is he, if he's six hundred and sixty-five.'

The next morning in Defence Against the Dark Arts, while they copied down the different ways of treating a werewolf bite, Harry and Ron were still arguing about what they'd do with a Philosopher's Stone of their own.

'I'd buy the Chudley Cannons,' said Ron. 'And sort them right out. You watch. I'd have them top of the Prime league inside a year. '

Then Harry remembered Snape, and the match, and his stomach dropped.

'I'm going to play,' he told Ron and Hermione, and he felt the same resolve settle in him that he'd felt on the broom, when it had done its best to throw him off and he'd simply refused to go. Let the world try to move him. Let the gods try, if there were any. 'If I don't, every Slytherin in the school will think I was too scared to face Snape. I'll show them. It'll really wipe the smiles off their faces if we win. Especially Malfoy's.'

'Just as long as we're not scraping you off the pitch,' said Hermione.

'Don't worry about me, Hermione,' said Harry. 'I won't let Slytherin win.'

Hermione looked away from him then, rather quickly, and went very pink, and Harry couldn't think why. He decided it was odd, and left it.

As the match drew nearer, though, and whatever he said to Ron and Hermione, Harry grew more and more nervous. The rest of the team weren't exactly calm either. The thought of overtaking Slytherin in the Championship was wonderful. Nobody had managed it in nearly seven years. But would they be allowed to, with a referee like that?

Harry didn't know whether he was imagining it, but he seemed to run into Snape wherever he went. He even began to wonder whether Snape was following him, trying to catch him alone, probably so that he could punish him for breaking some rule nobody had ever heard of. Potions had turned into a weekly torture, Snape was so horrible to him. Could Snape possibly know they'd found out about the Stone? Harry couldn't see how. Yet he sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could read minds.

Malfoy was no better. She was giving him grief every minute of every lesson they shared.

'You're stirring it the wrong way, Potter,' she said, in Potions, over her cauldron. 'Anticlockwise. Honestly. Were you raised in a barn?'

'It says clockwise.'

'It says clockwise for that stage. You're on the next one. Look, give it here.' And she'd reached over, taken his ladle out of his hand, stirred his potion three times the other way, and dropped the ladle back in the cauldron with a splash. 'There. Now it won't explode. You're welcome.'

Harry's potion had been, admittedly, a much better colour after that, which only made it worse. He had to get her back for Neville. He just hadn't worked out how.

When Ron and Hermione wished him luck outside the changing rooms the next afternoon, Harry could see that they were wondering whether they'd ever see him alive again, which wasn't what you'd call comforting. He hardly heard a word of Wood's pep talk, which was very loud and contained a great deal of swearing, as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked up his Nimbus Two Thousand.

Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found seats in the stands beside Neville, who couldn't understand why they both looked so grim, or why they'd both brought their wands to a Quidditch match. What Harry didn't know was that the two of them had been secretly practising the Leg-Locker Curse. They'd got the idea from Malfoy using it on Neville, and they were ready to use it on Snape the moment he showed any sign of wanting to hurt Harry.

'Don't forget, it's Locomotor Mortis,' Hermione muttered, as Ron slid his wand up his sleeve.

'I know,' Ron snapped. 'Stop nagging. And stop giving Harry those funny looks, it's putting me off.'

Back in the changing room, Wood had taken Harry aside.

'I don't want to put any pressure on you, Potter,' he said, 'but, mate, we are in the shit right now. If we ever needed an early Snitch it's today. Right bloody now. Get it caught before Snape can mess us about too much, yeah?'

'The whole school's out there!' said Fred Weasley, peering round the door. 'Even... blimey. Dumbledore's come to watch!'

Harry's heart turned a somersault.

'Dumbledore?' he said, dashing to the door to see for himself.

Fred was right. There was no mistaking that silver beard. Harry could have laughed out loud with relief. He was safe. Snape would never dare try anything with Dumbledore watching.

Perhaps that was why Snape looked so furious as the teams marched out on to the pitch, which Ron noticed too.

'I've never seen Snape look so mean,' he told Hermione. 'Look, they're off...'

But the rest of what he said was drowned out, because the Gryffindor stand had started to sing.

It was Dean Thomas's doing. He'd grown up on the terraces at Upton Park, and he'd been saying all week that it was a disgrace, a proper disgrace, that a school with a stadium that size had never once had a decent chant in it. He'd spent three evenings in the common room with a quill and a stack of parchment, and now he was on his feet on the front bench with his Gryffindor scarf stretched between his fists, bellowing out the first line while fifty Gryffindors roared it back at him.

'Yellow and black, yellow and black,

You've the colours of a wasp and the sting of a slug!

Loyal and true, loyal and true,

Loyal to losing, that's all that you do!'

The Hufflepuff stand opposite looked thoroughly bewildered. Hufflepuffs did not, as a rule, get sung at.

'What's a badger good for? Digging a hole!

What's a Hufflepuff good for? Guarding the coal!

Patience and hard work, that's what they say,

You'll need a lot of patience watching Hufflepuff play!'

'Dean,' said Hermione, very pale. 'That's horrible.'

'That's the point,' said Dean happily, and launched into the third one, which was about the Hufflepuff Seeker, and rhymed his name with something Hermione pretended not to hear. Percy was working his way along the row towards Dean with his Prefect badge polished and his mouth set, and from the far end of the stand Hagrid could be heard saying, 'Steady on, lads, steady on, it's only Hufflepuff,' and not being listened to.

'OUCH!'

Somebody had poked Ron hard in the back of the head. It was Malfoy, sniggering.

'Oh, sorry, Weasley. Didn't see you there.'

She had come down from the Slytherin end, Ron noticed, with Crabbe and Goyle in tow, and she'd put herself in the row directly behind him. Crabbe and Goyle had settled on either side of her, and she looked, for a second, like somebody checking that the furniture was where she'd left it. Then she grinned at the pair of them.

'Wonder how long Potter will stay on his broom this time?' she said, and if anyone had been listening who didn't know her, they'd have said she sounded worried. Then she glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, and her voice slid back to its usual smugness. 'Anyone want to bet? What about you, Weasley?'

Ron didn't answer. Malfoy had it in for his best mate, and she was only trying to bait him. Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had all her fingers crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry, who was circling high above the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.

'You know how I think they pick people for the Gryffindor team?' said Malfoy loudly a few minutes later, checking first that Crabbe and Goyle were looking at her, as Snape gave Hufflepuff another penalty for nothing at all. 'It's people they feel sorry for. See, there's Potter, who's got no parents. Then there's the Weasleys, who've got no money. You ought to be on the team, Longbottom. You've got no brains.'

Neville went scarlet, but he turned round in his seat to face her.

'I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy,' he stammered.

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle howled with laughter, but Ron, still not daring to look away from the game, said, 'You tell her, Neville.'

'Longbottom, if brains were Galleons you'd be poorer than Weasley, and that's saying something.'

Ron's nerves were already stretched to snapping with worry about Harry.

'Those are my mates you're talking about,' he said. 'I'm warning you, Malfoy. One more word...'

'Ronald!' said Hermione suddenly. 'Harry...!'

'What? Where?'

Harry had gone into a spectacular dive that drew gasps and cheers from the whole crowd. Hermione was on her feet with her crossed fingers in her mouth as he streaked towards the ground like a bullet.

Malfoy leaned forward until her chin was almost on Ron's shoulder. She took one quick look to her left, where Crabbe was, and one to her right, where Goyle was, as though counting them, and then she said, very clearly, right into Ron's ear:

'You're in luck, Weasley! Potter's obviously spotted some money on the ground!'

Ron snapped.

Before Malfoy knew what was happening, he had twisted round and launched himself at her, and the pair of them went backwards over the bench in a tangle, Ron saying things that muggles would've said were very unchristian.

'Crabbe! Goyle! Now!' Malfoy shrieked, and there was something in the way she said it, something almost bored, as if she'd been expecting this and was only waiting for it to be dealt with.

Nothing happened. Neville had hesitated for about half a second, then clambered over the back of the seat to pull Ron off before he got himself expelled for hitting a girl, and Crabbe and Goyle, who were already lumbering to their feet, found Neville Longbottom in their way, and Neville, to the astonishment of everybody including Neville, hit Goyle in the stomach.

'Crabbe!' Malfoy screamed again, and this time there was nothing bored about it at all.

And then, since nobody was coming, she stopped screaming and fought.

'Come on, Harry!' Hermione shrieked, jumping up on to her seat to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape. She was so taken up with Harry that she never noticed Malfoy and Ron rolling about beneath her feet, or the scuffles and yelps from the whirl of fists that was Neville, who was taking on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed and making a surprisingly good job of it. Nor did she see what the people in the next row saw, and talked about for a week afterwards: that once Dracina Malfoy had stopped waiting to be rescued, it was Ron Weasley who was in trouble. She went for his face with both hands. She got a fistful of red hair and pulled until he yelled. She raked four lines down his cheek with her nails, and when he grabbed her wrists she sank her teeth into his ear, and the whole time she was screaming at him. When Ron tried to remember it afterwards, he couldn't recall a word about money, or his family, or any of the usual things. As far as he could make out, it had all been about Harry, and about who Harry spent his time with, and he couldn't make head or tail of that at all.

Up in the air, Snape wheeled his broom round just in time to see a streak of scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches, and the next second Harry had pulled out of the dive with his arm raised, the Snitch clenched in his fist.

The stands went mad. It had to be a record. Nobody could remember the Snitch ever being caught so fast.

Dean Thomas was on the front bench again before the cheering had even peaked, both arms in the air, and the whole Gryffindor stand came in behind him on the first word.

'Five minutes! Five minutes!

You lasted five minutes!

We've had longer waits for the stairs to come round,

You lasted five minutes!'

And then, as the Hufflepuff team drifted down to the grass looking as though they weren't quite sure what had happened to them, the stand took up a new one, slower and crueller, which Dean conducted with his scarf.

'Can we play you every week?

Can we play you every week?

Go home to your badger sett,

Can we play you every week?'

'DEAN THOMAS!' Professor McGonagall's voice carried over the whole stadium. 'That will DO!'

'Yes, Professor,' said Dean, and did one more verse.

'Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game's over! Harry's won! We've won! Gryffindor are in the lead!' shrieked Hermione, dancing up and down on her seat and hugging Parvati Patil in the row in front.

Harry jumped off his broom a foot above the ground. He couldn't believe it. He'd done it. The game was over, and it had lasted barely five minutes. As the Gryffindors came pouring on to the pitch he saw Snape land nearby, white-faced and thin-lipped, and then he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into Dumbledore's smiling face.

'Well done,' said Dumbledore quietly, so that only Harry could hear. 'Good to see you haven't been brooding over that mirror. Keeping busy. Excellent.'

Snape spat bitterly on the grass.

Harry felt a glow of pride he'd never felt before in his life. He'd impressed Dumbledore. And he wanted to impress him more.

Some time later, Harry left the changing room alone to take his Nimbus Two Thousand back to the broomshed. He couldn't remember ever feeling so happy. He'd really done something to be proud of now. Nobody could say he was just a famous name any more. He'd impressed Dumbledore. The evening air felt full of triumph. His triumph.

He walked across the damp grass reliving the last hour, which was a happy blur: Gryffindors rushing to hoist him on to their shoulders; Ron and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed; and then Ron and Malfoy being marched off by Professor McGonagall, Ron with blood down his collar and one side of his face scratched to ribbons, Malfoy with a swelling eye and her hair all over the place, screaming and crying and trying to get a last swipe in at Ron while Professor McGonagall held them firmly apart by the collars. Harry had seen a good many fights at his old school. He'd never seen a girl fight like that, and he'd never seen anyone come out of a fight with Ron looking as though they'd won it.

Malfoy had noticed Harry looking. She'd given him the strangest look, a sad one, and then she'd sighed, and stopped shouting, and let Professor McGonagall take her and Ron away without another word. It was very odd. But at least Malfoy was finally in trouble for something, and Harry was sure Ron would be able to tell Professor McGonagall that he'd been provoked.

He reached the shed, leaned on the wooden door, and looked up at Hogwarts, its windows glowing red in the setting sun. Gryffindor in the lead. He'd done it. He'd shown Snape.

And speaking of Snape.

A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle. It plainly didn't want to be seen, and it walked as fast as it could towards the Forbidden Forest. Harry's victory went clean out of his head as he watched. He knew that prowling walk. Snape, sneaking into the Forest while everyone else was at dinner. What was going on?

Harry jumped back on to his broom and took off. Gliding silently over the castle, he saw Snape break into a run and vanish among the trees. He followed. The trees were so thick that he couldn't see where Snape had gone. He flew in circles, lower and lower, brushing the topmost branches, until he heard voices. He glided towards them and landed without a sound in a towering beech tree, and worked his way carefully along a branch with his broom held tight, trying to see through the leaves.

Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape. He wasn't alone. Quirrell was with him. Harry couldn't make out the look on his face, but he was stammering worse than ever. Harry strained to hear.

'... d-don't know why you w-wanted to m-meet here, of all p-places, Severus...'

'Oh, I thought we'd keep this private,' said Snape, and his voice was like ice. 'Students aren't supposed to know about the Philosopher's Stone, after all.'

Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape cut across him.

'Have you worked out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?'

'B-b-but, Severus, I...'

'You don't want me for an enemy, Quirrell,' said Snape, and took a step towards him.

'I... I d-don't know what you...'

'You know perfectly well what I mean.'

An owl hooted, loud and close, and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He got his balance back in time to hear Snape say, '... your little bit of hocus-pocus. I'm waiting.'

'B-but I d-d-don't...'

'Very well,' said Snape. 'We'll have another little talk soon, when you've had time to think things over and decide where your loyalties lie.'

He threw his cloak up over his head and strode out of the clearing. It was nearly dark now, but Harry could still see Quirrell, standing quite still, as though somebody had turned him to stone.

'Harry! Where've you been?' Hermione squeaked.

'We won! You won! We won!' shouted Ron, who was back from wherever Professor McGonagall had taken him, and he thumped Harry on the back. 'And I gave Malfoy a black eye. Didn't mean to, exactly, she sort of ran into it. Look what she did to me, though!' He turned his head. There was a crescent of tooth marks on his ear, and four raw red lines down his cheek, and a bald patch above one temple where a handful of hair had been. 'She bit me. She's mental, Harry. Properly mental. And Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle on his own! Mate, he battered them! He's still out cold, but Madam Pomfrey says he'll be fine. Talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone's waiting for you in the common room, we're having a party, Fred and George nicked some cakes and stuff from the kitchens.'

'Never mind that now,' said Harry breathlessly. 'Let's find an empty room. You wait till you hear this...'

He checked that Peeves wasn't lurking inside before he shut the door behind them, and then he told them what he'd seen and heard.

'So we were right. It is the Philosopher's Stone, and Snape's trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked him if he knew how to get past Fluffy, and he said something about Quirrell's "hocus-pocus". I reckon there are other things guarding the Stone, apart from Fluffy. Loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell must have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through...'

'So you mean the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?' said Hermione in alarm.

'It'll be gone by next Tuesday,' said Ron.